The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming

Oh I don't know, just something very square about tv, well about all those families sitting home and feeding their faces from their tv trays when they should have been doing something, I don't know what.  Anybody remember Married with Children?  I remember Peggy once nagging Al about how they never go out  and do anything anymore, "Why don't we have a social calendar?" she implored, "Don't  need one we have this," Al replied, showing her a copy of TV Guide.

I seem to remember those more elaborate standalone ashtrays.  I think they had a like a handle, something protruding from the top where you could bang your pipe to knock out the ashes.  Pipes, a big pain in the ass with their whole rigmarole of devices, although some people dig that crap.  As soon as it became apparent that my pipe filled with cherry blend, jutting from my jaw Hef-style wasn't going to get me any chicks I discarded it.  It took longer for me to realize that my English Leather wasn't doing the trick either.  I reckon I reeked.

We still talk about something being bigger than a breadbox, or I think we do,  I'll have to check next time I am around people who aren't old.  Sometimes a young person strolls into the Ten Cat. Sometimes even a hot young babe, over at the geezer's corner Old Dog and I may elbow each other as we pick our eyeballs up off the bar.  Could this be the pickup line we have been waiting all our lives for?  We shall see, we shall see?

Meanwhile The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming.  That was a movie from 1966, kind of a gentle movie it appears.  Can there be a handsome Soviet submariner and a winsome little New England farm girl?  More likely an exotic Russian sub girl and a chiseled jawed New England cop or something.  We would just be happier, even in a friendly affair, if we got one of their women rather than they got one of ours.   Later we got the Red Dawns and the Wolverines.

And now we have Donald Trump.  Why prepare an invading armada when all you really have to do is flatter a fat man?  Of course the Trumpsters are all like, no problem here, what a pal is that Putin. The ever thinning crust of republican Never Trumps bleat, but the wish washies between the Trumpists and the Nevers are alarmingly willing to go along for a ride on the Trump train to Moscow.

Late at night in the freehold Beagles may hear a creak and grab Old Betsy and note a movement in the bushes and blam.  Was that a Red or a Republican?  Ah, what's the difference?